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By Edward Griffin

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Yet he looked such a decent person— you never could tell. In Sofia Petrovna’s building, too, in apartment 104 oppo­ site hers, someone was arrested— some Communist or other. T he 33 His room was closed up with red seals on the door. The house manager told Sofia Petrovna about it. In the evenings Sofia Petrovna put on her glasses— she had recently become farsighted— and read the paper out loud to Natasha. The tablecloth was already finished; Natasha was now embroidering a coverlet for Sofia Petrovna’s bed.

Answered Sofia Petrovna. “ Why Latvian spe­ cifically? ” Sofia Petrovna was asked by the old Jewish woman with silver hair who had spoken to her on the embankment. Sofia Petrovna didn’t answer. She couldn’t understand any­ thing here. The woman lying on the staircase, and now all kinds of silly questions about Latvians and travel vouchers . . What did travel vouchers have to do with it? She felt as if she were not in Leningrad at all, but in some unknown city. How strange to think that her job, the publishing house, Natasha tapping away at her typewriter was only half an hour’s walk away .

Just think, these scoundrels wanted to murder our beloved ^ Stalin. It was they, it turned out, who had murdered Kirov. They caused explosions in mines and derailed trains. And there was scarcely an establishment in which they hadn’t placed their henchmen. One of the typists in the office, just back from a vacation resort, related that there was a young engineer in the room next to theirs, she sometimes went for walks with him in the park. Then one night a car suddenly drove up and he was arrested: it turned out he was a saboteur.

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